


Wyvern Bone

by Chaifootsteps



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Aftercare, Biting, Dirty Talk, M/M, Power Dynamics, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 12:12:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11531970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaifootsteps/pseuds/Chaifootsteps
Summary: The salad days at Vigil's Keep. Fun with power dynamics. Anders doing nothing discreetly, save wear a plug all afternoon.





	Wyvern Bone

The first half of the day, Anders was absolutely golden. 

No, really, he couldn’t begin to stress that enough. Sailing along like a charm. The undisputed champion at…whatever the name of this game was. He wasn’t scheduled to work down in the keep’s sick rooms, obviously, but he got a bit of writing done and helped bring in the washing and even straightened his room for the first time in a month. 

And honestly, you know, it was one of those things you got used to rather quickly, like a dip in a chilly lake. He didn’t even feel the thing inside of him unless he was sitting down. 

Or standing up.

Or bending over.

Or if he turned too quickly, or took the stairs, or thought about it in there, shifting against his walls and nudging up hard against his prostate…

Thank Andraste for robes just a size or two too big. 

By late afternoon, however, the teasing was wearing on his ability to focus. The plug had settled into a very…distracting position, and it hadn’t shifted in two hours. He felt like he’d been hard for several years. He debated skipping dinner entirely, but he remembered his orders, issued as he bent over the old dresser and groaned at the sensation of the plug settling.

_“Be patient. Enjoy it. I’ll come for you soon enough.”_

Better to make himself easily found. Better to look like this wasn’t in any way, shape, or form killing him. Even if that meant nibbling at a roll on the far end of the mess hall, not tasting it, and being quietly disturbed at the fact that Oghren’s frequent belching was doing nothing to quell his erection.

“Anders?” came the voice of Sigrun, more suspicion than concern. “Are you…alright?” 

Anders jumped, blinked, and only then did he realize he’d been staring blankly on ahead at the salad plate for several minutes. 

“What? Of course I’m alright! Do I not look alright?”

 _(Was it getting bigger inside him? He could have sworn it was getting bigger_.) 

“You look like you sat on something.” Before he could quite get his thoughts around that one, she shook her head. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.” She helped herself to the parsnips and was gone.

Figuring that enough was enough, Anders glanced around the hall (shifting cautiously in his seat) for the face he wanted to see, but found only a scattering of Wardens working steadily through their meals. A trickle of precum ran down the length of his shaft and beaded in the crook of his thigh; not for the first time that day, he considered ducking away somewhere and making an attempt to give himself some much needed relief. He’d watched that ribbon intently as it was tied around his cock…some fancy Orlesian knot, but surely it wouldn’t be that hard to wank around it? Right? 

…Right?

Suddenly, blessedly, the door opened, and Warden-Commander Ain Caron made his way in, deliberating in a quiet, heated voice with Seneschal Garevel. Anders made a bobbing, imploring attempt to catch his eye, withering inside when he merely took up a piece of bread, split it, and stuffed it with cheese and venison, all without ever taking a seat or so much as looking at his own Wardens. Well, piss to that, Anders bristled. if he’d forgotten about the damn toy, he was getting himself off, permission be damned.

At the last minute, just shy of the door, their commander turned around.

“Oh, and Anders? I’d like to speak with you about the elfroot stores. Please meet me in the back wing as soon as you finish up here.” 

Anders was not the one in charge of the elfroot stores.

They didn’t even  _have_  a back wing. 

* * *

That was then and this is now, and Anders considers briefly the most discrete way to creep up to the Commander of the Grey’s quarters without looking like he’s gagging for dick. In the end, he decides to throw caution to the wind and runs up the stairs to their leader’s quarters, past the portrait of Warden-Commander Such-and-So, past that awful ogre skull in its glass case, nearly tripping on the carpet before slamming the heavy oak door behind himself in a way that reverberates down several halls. Discretely. 

Sure enough, there sits the Warden-Commander, fully clothed and sipping an Antivan red.

He’s sure he’s not the only one who’s noticed that Ain Caron is shockingly, unforgivably good looking; a living testament to everything they say about Rivain giving Tevinter a run for its coin as far as attractive people are concerned. From the broad muscles of his arms and shoulders to the tussle of curled hair that always finds its way over his right eye, Anders is fairly certain he could have taken up a living as the resident bodice ripper in a trashy pirate novella if he’d had a mind to. 

“You rang? Finally?”

 Ain carries on drinking as though he hadn’t heard him. “It’s a good thing I summoned you up here when I did. You looked as though you were about to crack right there at the table.”

“Huh, I should say so. I’ve been  _good_.”

“We’ll see about that. Clothes off, on the bed.”

Anders is certain he could have torn the robes free and been quite happy, but he knows his commander well enough to know that wouldn’t have been appreciated – Warden robes aren’t easily mended. He throws himself down on his back, uncomfortably hard, fingers twitching with the urge to simply grab the toy and fuck himself utterly senseless. The commander strides across the room to the bedside – wineglass still in hand – and looks over his trembling, aching form with cool, quiet appraisal.

“Ahh, I see that ribbon’s right where I left it. Turns out you  _do_  have a scrap of self-control in you; will wonders never cease?” The faintest brush with a finger, straight along the wet split. Anders shivers and bucks up into his touch, groaning with displeasure when it’s removed. Through hooded eyes, he watches the commander slowly drain the last of his wine and set the glass safely aside. His voice, when he leans in, is pure velvet. “Is it beginning to test you, Anders? The feeling of it inside you, shifting, teasing you slowly for hours on end?”

“Clearly.”

“What’s that?” His eyebrow cocks smoothly. Here in the keep, that’s all he generally needs to get a point across.

“…Yes, sir. Yes, commander.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, it’s…pretty much impossible to ignore. Sir.”

“Excellent.” The commander eases a palm up his stomach…skimming his hipbones, ribs, the hard peaks of his nipples, and tightening ever so briefly over his throat. In the end, it settles below his chin, lifting it until he’s forced to look deep into his commander’s eyes. If there’s any trace of mercy to be found in those fierce, golden-brown depths, Anders is blind to it. “Do you know why I’m doing this to you?”

“No, commander…” His superior’s fingertips find the inside of his knee. With deliberate, agonizing slowness, they ghost along his thigh until they’re grasping the heavy, solid base of the wyvern bone plug. Though Anders gasps and parts his knees eagerly, they make no move whatsoever towards removing it.

“I see the way you carry on all day, batting your eyes at Nathaniel…at the guards…at anyone with a decent body on them, really. You think if you just annoy Velanna enough, it will all balance out, yes? That no one will paint you as the needy, cock starved slut that you are?” The base is tugged and Anders jerks as the phallus draws backwards, the broad end forcing him wide all over again. Just as the tip is poised to leave him, the commander presses it back into the hilt, fucking him deep. He starts, whimpers, but the commander keeps a hold of his chin, refusing to let him look away. “I’ve no qualm with you being a little slut, Anders, but sometimes I do believe you forget one simple truth. Namely, that you are  _mine._ Your body, in all the ways that the Circle would like to claim, is your own…but in all the interesting ways? It is taken, and it is claimed, and it is  _mine_. And  _that_ is what this lesson is all about.”

Anders’ world tilts. He feels himself jerk, drooling precum all over his belly. 

“ _My_  hand that teases you to the brink.  _My_  cock that you come undone upon.” 

“ _Shit_ ,” he whispers. 

“What would you do if I slipped this back inside you right now? Forced you to go another day without being allowed to cum? Two days? A week?” Anders’ stiffens with alarm. He wouldn’t…physically, no, there would be  _no way_ , and yet. _.._

But thecommander offers a hint of a dark smirk. Rolls the plug against the sweet spot, hard enough to make his eyes roll back.

“Not to worry. You’re getting fucked, and that’s nonnegotiable.”

“Oh, thank the Maker,” Anders breathes before he can stop himself. Wonders if he’ll get a smack on the arse for that one, but moments later, the plug is pulled free, and he feels tragically empty. The ribbon is untied with a single tug, but he knows better than to have at himself. He merely sprawls back against the bed, toes anxious and twisting against the sheets, and watches his commander undress at a pace that seems far, far too slow to be real or fair. 

He’s heard that their leader worked himself to the point of collapse to sculpt out the body he has now, and it shows. There doesn’t see to be an inch of him that isn’t chiseled, sinew earned and sinew scarred. There's a broad, thickened scar that runs from the curve of his hipbone to an inch or so past his navel, and Anders remembers with ugly distinction the day the ogre inflicted it by the gates of Amaranthine. Then, when he shifts and turns, the entirety of his back is an elaborate palette for tattoos representing places he’s been and dreams he’s conceived; land and sea, rain and wind, mountains, and the wild, haunting spaces where they meet. Rivaini symbols, coastal lore, and the winding bodies of strange creatures.

He leaves the binder and nothing else. But when he retrieves his harness and buckles it on…that’s the moment Anders lives for. That slight wisp of runes glowing blue as the enchantment responds to the blood coursing through him…the involuntary hitch of breath as his nerves pair up flawlessly with the phallus, flooding him with sensation, uniting him with his cock as though it had always been there. 

And always, always the look of absolute and utter hunger.

“Talk to me,” he commands, pressing the slick tip to Anders’ well stretched entrance. Anders flexes his hips, trying to draw him in, quaking with frustration when the commander moves with him, denying him any possibility of penetration. “Tell me what you need, Anders. Tell me what you  _are._ ” ”

“Please, just do it…can’t take it…”

For a moment, he thinks that will suffice. The man above him starts to push into him, enough to feel himself part around the head, just the barest beginnings of a stretch…and then, cruelly, retreating. Anders slaps his palm down on the sheets, twisting in terrible denial.

“Tell me.”

"I..."

" _Tell me_ , Anders. Or you get nothing at all."

“ _Yours! All yours!_ Maker, I need…I need you to _fuck me._ Don’t want anyone else’s cock, I need yours…need you inside me, filling me up. Please, commander, please, please,  _please_ …”

The scream tears from his throat as the commander slams inside him to the hilt. He bends, hair falling loose, nothing registering but heat and firing nerves and  _fullness._

Finally, finally, _finally._

 _“_ So pretty _,”_ Ain purrs, smooth as glass. How he talks and fucks at the same time, Anders will never know. “So pretty and tight…is this what you’ve been craving all day?”

Oh Maker, yes, it was. The plug wasn’t as big as the commander, wasn’t as thick. The plug didn’t have strong muscles arms to dig his nails into or hips to tangle his legs around or a lovely rolling accent, and the plug didn’t smell like spices and tea and soap and sunlight…

His body has been too over-sensitized for too long; wound too tight. Every time his commander drives into him, he feels it all the way up his spine, rattling his molars. The noises he’s making are obscene – whines and wails and yips and soft, anguished moans, like he’s in real torture. Perhaps he is.

There’s nothing soft or gentle about this, and he knows he won’t last long. When a particularly brutal thrust draws a cry shrill enough that Anders covers his mouth, the commander wrenches it away, pinning his wrists. 

“No,” he says. “Don’t you  _dare._ ”

Anders gazes up at him with wet, baleful eyes. Tries to address him properly, respectfully, but his tongue falters around the words, and he can only nod. Yes, he thinks, both distantly and with a strange, startling clarity. Yes, this is exactly what he is. The commander’s trusted healer by day and his whore by night; his beloved little cock toy. The one they gossip about in Amaranthine, and sneer at in the Chantry. The one who got away, and curled up in the Warden-Commander’s lap, and, and–

And he needs it. He needs it so desperately, it’s like being cut.

“Please, sir,” he chokes. “Please, please…”

“Say it, Anders.” Anders arches against him like a wanton animal, but he can’t take him deeper than he already is. He feels completion on every nerve, just hanging there, and he wails in misery. “ _Say it!_  Let me hear you!”

“ _Please, sir, let me cum!_ ”

For the first time since they began, the commander  _growls_. He bites down on the pale arch of neck, hard enough to bruise, slams in, and Anders flies apart.

Too much, too long. He cums like a blood blister breaks or a pot that’s been abandoned boils over, so intense it almost toes the line of painful. The commander’s grip on his wrists tightens as he hits his peak; his hips jerk, fucking Anders through his climax, dragging it out,  _how is he still spilling?_

Just when he begins to grow frightened by the possibility that it might not ever end, it does. Mercy, it  _does._

As he drifts down to reality, he realizes that the tears which have been gathering are suddenly flow freely, and that they won’t be stopped. He barely feels the commander withdraw; just lays there in sodden sheets, wet and violated and blubbering all over himself.

“Anders?” The Warden-Commander asks in a very, very different voice. “Oh, shit, too much? I’m so sorry, I’m sorry! What do you need?”

Anders waves a hand, powers of speech still slow in coming, but gestures for the younger man to come closer. The commander –  _Ain, Fearless Leader,_   _didn’t expect a Warden from the land of giant spiders to be so bothered by ladybugs_ – gets the hint and gathers him in close, carding impossibly gentle fingers through his hair and nuzzling his temple.

“It’s alright…you’re safe, you’re fine. I swear I didn’t a mean a word of that. Not a single word.”

Anders licks his lips. Swallows. “No, no, that was spectacular. Perfect. Really. Just…stay, for now? Like this?”

“Gladly,” Ain replies. He’ll undoubtedly want to go over this later – even on a typical day, he worries about the weight of his status and what it means for this thing that’s between them – but for now, he holds the mage close like he’s the most precious, beautiful, breakable thing in the world. And right now, that’s exactly what Anders needs.

Presently, his body decides it’s had enough, and ceases crying and trembling. He sighs a long, depleted sigh. 

“ _Andraste’s trousers_ , you’re hot when you’re in full commander mode.”

Ain snorts softly. “You ought to follow me around for a day. ‘Full commander’ mode is when I’m negotiating trade deals with stodgy, deluded diplomats.”

“Hot.” Spent and sore, but thoroughly satisfied, Anders burrows into his chest, letting his eyes fall shut. If he can get away with not opening them for the next three days, so much the better.

Ain presses his lips to the top of his head. “Can you see to drinking some water?”

“Not if it means you leaving.”

“The pail is across the room. Quite literally within spitting distance, I believe.”

“ _No_ ,” Anders grouses, latching on tighter. “You stay.”

Ain mutters something about setting it next to the bed in the future as he pulls up the blankets. 

And he stays. 


End file.
